So, someone asked me why I rated this M? Well, because of the following chapter. It's kind of disturbing… I kind of enjoyed writing it though – there's not really any other chapter like it. So, if you're not a fan of horror or gore, DO NOT READ.

As for characters, I'm still in need of people across the Narrow Sea. I can't show anything occurring in Essos until I have some more characters. I'd like 3 Bravos (Water-Dancers), a Dothraki and a Courtesan. These are the essential roles, but I'll accept others. Whether they're merchants, bankers, fishermen etc.

Also, to the Guest who asked, I've shown all the Boltons I've accepted. I'm still considering another Baratheon, but if you're asking about Storm's End, I won't be showing that for a while, since all the Baratheons are in King's Landing for the wedding of Haylise.

I'm also in need of a Lord Bolton at the moment.

Rickard of Crofter's – The Dreadfort

The dark canvas sack was removed from my head, and as I looked around, the chamber was so dark, it didn't take a moment for my eyes to adjust. I looked up to my wrists, which had been constricted by leather straps. I was on a heavy oak contraption, legs spread apart like my arms. In front of me, stood the woman who had captured me. Dark hair, a pale face, but like one of them maids from the songs. Her simple blue dress unlaced at the chest, revealing much of her bust. As I said, tits like a whore.

"Welcome back." She had her head tilted to the side, as she leant back on the table behind. No smile. No, she stared at me with great attention, observing me like she was trying to learn what I was doing. Fuck all, against this cross.

"Who the fuck are you?" I tried to keep my breathing even – not show these bastards fear. As I spoke, I remembered her dagger – the sigil of the flayed man. She was a Bolton.

"Your Mistress." She stated.

"Oh, aye?" I scoffed, "slip out of that dress and show me then." I sniggered, waiting for her to hit me. Her face didn't change at all. She simply cocked her head to the other side. "What?"

"You're already scared…" she stated, walking towards me, hips swaying from side to side with each sound of her heel against the stone slabs. "I've barely touched you." She pulled out her small knife once more, dragging it along my neck softly and casually, looking at it with great focus. "You're trying to hide it, but you stink of fear…"

"Go fuck yourself in the arse," I said, looking away from her, trying to keep my breathing ragged, but I could feel it creeping up my chest and into my throat. The panic. I couldn't let it consume me, but the cold steel of her knife did little to still the feeling. She let out a soft throaty chuckle.

"I like that." She moved her other hand to the lace of her dress, pulling at one of the strands and loosening it further, showing more skin, and more of her bust. "Stark men are so different to others." She said, as she began to pull at the laces, opening more and more of her dress, as the other hand guided the knife across my body. "Have you ever seen the muscles of an arm before?" I was caught off-guard – I didn't even know how to speak when she said this to me. Truth be told, I had no fucking clue the words she had said for a moment. "I'll take that as a 'no'." She chirped before moving her knife to my right forearm, and starting to needle at the skin, working her way across the width of it. I couldn't contain myself, and let out a yell, pulling at my restraints, spit flying from my lips as I hissed out in pain.

"I know, I know…" She shushed me, "it's worth it, you'll see." She had made a scar across the width of my wrist, and began to dig at the sides, pinching the skin with her other hand.

"You… fuck…" I hissed. She let out a small smile as my skin began to tear and give, stretching away from my arm in agony.

"Just a bit more…" She let out a small giggle, "I'll be gentle." And then she ripped the skin downwards, towards my elbow. I let out a strangled yell through gritted teeth. And thank the Gods I did, otherwise I fear I would have bitten clean through my tongue. I refused to look at my arm, facing the other side of the room with eyes stinging red hot. "Look at it." she crooned gently, wrapping one of her skeletal hands behind my ear, pressing her cold fingers against my scalp.

"No." I shook my head, looking away from her, but as I did so, her hand held my head more firmly, and she brought her red lips against my own. As she kissed me, ever so delicately, I couldn't stop myself from wondering what the taste was on her lips. Warmer, and sending sparks crackling through my own.

As she pulled away, I felt something else – a horrible twang sounded and my ring finger fell numb. I looked over to it, a severed white line poking out through my flesh. No matter how I tried, my ring finger stayed motionless.

"It all works so well together…" she said, looking at my arm with a child-like smile, full of wonder and fascination, "do you not think so?"

"Just stop it," I gasped, "please, just stop-"

"You do not give orders to your Mistress," she pointed the knife to me as she giggled, digging it into my arm again. Another string snapped, and my little finger became still.

"I'll tell you anything you want." I closed my eyes – the room had begun to spin. Gods, I wanted to fall into a deep slumber – away from this demon.

"Anything?" She asked, walking around me once me, one gaunt hand open and dragging along my shirt, while the other clasped the knife, which slipped against my back gently. "Will you tell me your name now?"

"Rickard!" I shouted quickly, hoping she'd remove the knife from my body, "my name is Rickard!"

"Rickard…?"

"of Crofter's!"

"But I thought you said you were Brandon the Builder." She said innocently. I shook my head, trying to look away from her, but she moved her knife down to my breeches, cutting at the drawstrings, and letting the knife rest between my legs. "Talk." She ordered me.

"I was being funny." I said, eyes fixed on the knife.

"How amusing," she breathed deeply, then moved the knife away from my body, "you're quite the little fool aren't you?" I gritted my teeth. I'd already lost two fingers to the woman, and I'd be damned if I lost another. "Aw, has the little rat forgotten how to talk?" Again, I remained still, eyes remaining on her. I wouldn't play into her game any further. I was a soldier for the Stark family. And I would die in chains rather than play into this woman's games. "Bored now." She said, voice void of any emotion. As if she had lost all interest in me, and directed her attention elsewhere. With a casual hand, she dug the blade into my arm and severed the other tendons.

As I let out my screams, watching my fingers remain still as a corpse's, the woman simply walked back to another woman, who had remained at the door. My captor handed her the piece of skin she had peeled from my arm, "Katya, be a darling and sew this back on for me, would you?"

"Yes, Lady Theodosia." The woman curtsied, and walked over to the table, picking up a needle and some string. She came back over to me, looking at the bloody mess on my arm. She was shorter than the demon woman, and far less beautiful. However, every strand was held perfectly in place, her dress was more what you would expect from a Lady. But, by the Gods, she had tits a man would sell his first-born to have a go on. Golden-brown hair twisted into a plait, like them proper Ladies wore their hair.

"Who are you?" I asked her. She just stared at me blankly, as if she couldn't understand what I was saying. "Where am I?" She didn't respond, and started to sew my skin back onto my forearm. "I know you can talk! I heard you just now!" She stopped sewing, looking at the muscles under my skin, and the torn tendons that hung out of my arm like undone drawstrings. She let the needle hang off the wire, tugging at my arm, and began to pinch at the tendons, curling and unfurling my fingers. And then, she began to tie them back together. "Thank you…" I began to thank her, until I realized the tendons were crossing each other. "no, you're doing it wrong." I informed her, but she didn't stop. She continued to tie them back with an occupied furrowing of the brow. "No, stop it! Stop!"

Ilyana Bolton – The Dreadfort

I stood on the battlements, watching Ilyana walk from dungeons, lacing up her dress. Young Thea with her games. Smiling and simpering at the townsfolk that moved past her. She'd be sent off soon, to marry. Perhaps we'd strap down Markas and get Thea to mount him. As soon as there's a baby in her belly, we could slit the Wolf's throat and end this wretched war with the Starks. Or we could send her off the Iron Islands, wed her to a Greyjoy. I smiled at the thought, her being taken by some Ironborn reaver. He'd stamp out any spirit left in the woman. Sap the soul out of her until the was little else left but bitterness and cruelty. This was the destiny of all women, and I would have prayed to the Gods for this fate to befall her as soon as possible.

Raff stood in the middle of the courtyard, sparring with some of the soldiers. His Bolton black hair had been shaved off, as had his beard, revealing his hollow cheeks, and stony grey eyes, which eyed his opponents. He wore his breeches and no shirt, revealing lean muscle and numerous scars from his time in the Iron Islands. A shame; if only they had cut a little deeper, the boy would join Ben Stark and the whore Maryana in eternal darkness. I gripped my cane at the thought. Perhaps Markas Stark would be kind enough to send him to a shallow grave. And then on to here, to do the same to his dastardly father.

I would watch him spare often, showing all that the cold would not dare kill him. The men were tentative, watching him twirl an axe in one hand, and his broad dagger in the other, walking calmly as they encircled him. One attacked – and for a moment, I hoped they might drive their sword deep through his heart. Instead, Raff swung his axe around, knocking the blade onto the ground, and driving his dagger deep into the man's wrist. He moved backwards with a roar, throwing the man into another before swinging his axe into a shield, obliterating it.

I made my way down the battlements; Raff's games did not anger me like Thea's. No, they simply bored me. He was a simple-minded brute, just like his father. As I walked, everything around me began to blur, flickering and flitting out of being. I watched as the stone and mud began to slip away, consumed by bright flames as a beast rose from the blames, brilliantly white. It resembled the myths of an Ice Dragon, beyond the Wall. It beat it's powerful wings, toppling stone from the towers of the keep, and opening it's mouth to breathe searing fumes upon me…

"Lady Ilyana," I turned around, seeing one of Thea's handmaidens, Elyse, curtsy, "Lord Bolton requests your presence." I brought up my cane, and struck it against her leg, watching her kneel before me. The images of the dragon and flames had dissipated, and I was once again in this desolate reality. "My Lady?" I struck my cane against her face.

"Never. Interrupt me." I hissed.

"Forgive me, My Lady-" I beat her again.

"Miserable wretch." I snarled. It was always the way here – Thea's handmaidens. Always watching me, spying, eavesdropping. They were all waiting for me to sleep, then they would come. Invade my dreams like the demonic apparitions they were. "Leave me."

The girl got to her feet, bowed her head, and fled. Weak. They were all weak. Weak little children, yet to suffer in the world as I had. Back when I was an Umber. Soon, I'd watch them all burn. The Dragon would return and set the North alight.

By the Gods, I would dance in the inferno on that day. Raff and Thea, my knave of a husband… they'd all burn. And we would all leave this world and be consumed by emptiness.

So… yeah. Could you imagine a reality show focused around the Boltons? I guess that's kind of what this is… Ilyana's chapter may feel a bit fractured, but that was intentional.

Anyway, keep those reviews and characters coming! Next chapter is back to Winterfell.